


Passive-Aggressive

by shimere277



Category: Kasabian
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimere277/pseuds/shimere277
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary?  It's a PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passive-Aggressive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alinewrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alinewrites/gifts).



> This is a last-minute Yuletide Treat. Not terribly sure if I've posted it correctly :P
> 
> It references a kind of sexually violent porn film that might be triggery to some people.

Having a day between shows is not always a good thing, especially with this mood coming on.  Being on stage means that Tom has a chance to burn off that energy, that peculiar anger which flares up every now and again, making it impossible for him to feel comfortable in his own skin.  He is never quite sure what he is angry about.  Sometimes he thinks it is the state of the world, or stupid Tory politics, or what some arsehole critic had said, but when it comes down to the root, it is just the anger looking to fix upon any cause it can find.

At times like this he knows the best thing is to lock himself into a room with a few bottles of tequila and watch the vilest hardcore porn he can find.  He can go on for days sometimes, wanking off to scenes of bondage and torture, non-con, women being passed around at parties like packets of crisps.  It is something that makes him feel guilty since he genuinely likes almost everyone he meets, would never treat a bird with something less than respect, doesn’t believe in violence and prays every day for world peace.  Unfortunately, the guilt only makes the porn seem hotter.

He does not, however, feel guilty about the fact that some of the porn he likes is man-on-man.  Not that he is gay.  He knows what gay means.  Gay means that you need to shag a man enough that you get beat up after school, have everyone laugh behind your back, get kicked out of church, and make your mother cry.  Tom, on the other hand, loves pert nipples and wet pussies and rounded thighs and firm biceps and big stiff cocks and being touched by pretty much everyone.  Here’s the thing: you like ice cream, the vanilla is free and shoved at you from every direction, the chocolate gets the shit kicked out of you.  So you lick your way through a world of vanilla, and maybe sometimes lock yourself in a room with a few bottles of tequila and watch people on the telly sucking up the chocolate.

It does make him mad sometimes.  It makes him mad at himself for being such a pussy (not as in a pussy who likes guys, but as in a pussy who won’t stand up for himself).  It makes him mad at himself for sometimes wanting to take the people he loves with all of his heart, people he worships and wants to serenade and fill their world with flowers, makes him want to smack them around, tie them up and make them suck his cock.

This is why the tequila is essential.  The more tequila, the less that thinking about these things impedes his enjoyment.

 

She’s a good-looking bird with blonde hair and pouty lips and big eyes with maybe a little too much mascara.  She’s giving him a look that says “follow me,” but Serge never follows anyone anywhere.

That is the problem with most birds.  They want a bloke to follow them.  Serge is too wasted most of the time, too lazy all of the time.  Or maybe lazy isn’t the right word for a man who can spend fourteen hours a day working on his music.  Maybe passive is the better word.

Maybe she will come back.  Maybe she will get the idea that he needs to be taken back to his room, laid across the bed and stripped.  Maybe she will give him a blow job, or get him hard enough that she can climb on top and ride him.  It happens sometimes.  Those are good nights.

Mostly, though, what happens is that he gets to the point of falling out of his chair and Dibs takes him back to the hotel room, lays him across the bed and leaves him with his clothes on.  Then he will lay there, unable to fall asleep because he is usually tripping on something also.  The drugs and the late night silence of the hotel will make every sound seem to intensify, until he can clearly hear the television in Tom’s room.  And then he will think about the unthinkable, unthinkable because Tom isn’t gay, and Tom treats the people he loves with the utmost gentleness, and Serge isn’t really a submissive, just passive, which is the difference between begging to obey and allowing yourself to be ravished.

 

Tom thinks this film is especially hot.  A young, pretty, first year uni boy goes to a party.  He gets wasted and the other guys take advantage of him.  But before they all fuck him, they suck him off and make him come so they can tell him that he really wants it, he’s just a natural little slut who deserves what’s coming to him.

And then Tom hears the door to the next room open and nearly jumps off the bed.  It’s Dibs bringing Serge back.  Tom flushes with embarrassment.  OF course Serge can’t see or hear him, but even the thought that Serge might guess what he had just been watching makes him feel dirty and ashamed.  The problem isn’t the sex, it isn’t even the man-on-man, it’s the violence.

This kid on screen is getting his first ever blow job by a bloke, and he hates it, but he loves it too.  He’s being held down, and he’s going to come, and he’s so violated and he never wants it to stop.   And Serge is in the next room, too wasted to move, and Tom wants to claw through the walls. Why does Serge have to be so damn sexy, with his sleepy eyes and his red, swollen lips that always look like they’ve just been bitten?  Why does he always slouch easily back in his chair with an attitude that says just-come-on-do-me?

 

Serge is sprawled, spread-eagled on the bed, and, as is not unusual, he’s into Tom’s head.  He knows all about Tom.  Maybe he never says anything because Tom would die of the shame.  No, that’s not true.  He doesn’t say anything because he’s too passive.

What Serge needs is for Tom to be in his head right now, to know he’s supposed to come over; if he brought the tequila it would be good, the porn less so, but Serge doesn’t really care.  He isn’t judgmental about it, it just bores him with its predictability.  Serge longs for the unpredictable.  He wants things to happen to him.

Tom is all impulse.  He’s never predictable.  Which is why Serge loves him, desires him more than anything.

 

Tom is balled up on the floor, nearly sobbing with shame and rage and frustration.  He’s wearing a shirt with no jeans.  He knows that the movie is just a movie, that rape victims don’t turn into sex slaves.

But still.

He puts his jeans on, doesn’t bother with shoes.  He goes barefoot down the hall, knocks on the door.  “Hey Serge?  You awake?  Want to get high?”

Serge opens his eyes.  It means he will have to unlock the door.  Then it’s going to take at least a little effort on his part.  “Just a minute,” he says, slowly pushing himself into a seated position.

He stands.  The door is a million miles away and his feet are a million million miles away, and he’s got to get those two things to move closer together so he can reach his heart.

There’s a padlock, a chain.  Serge remembers dimly how to operate them.  Tom is on the other side of the door.  His hair is mussed, his face flushed.  Serge knows exactly what he’s been doing.

Tom is an angel and a devil and they are at war about whether Serge is a god or a fucktoy and there’s not enough tequila in the world to stop them.  This doesn’t keep Tom from seeing how fucked up Serge is, and he puts his arm around the taller man, helping him back to the bed.

Serge flops back listlessly.  He realizes that he will have to make at least some effort.  “Tom?” he says quietly.  “I’m a little too fucked to get undressed, mate.  Can you help me out?”

“Sure,” Tom stammers, nearly spitting out a lung.  He kneels at the foot of the bed.  His fingers fumble at Serge’s shoelaces.  He pulls the shoes free.  Then his hands reach for the belt buckle, come to rest near Serge’s improbably concave stomach.  It rises and falls with every breath.  Tom wishes that maybe he could die right now.  Maybe.  After the belt buckle, the zipper.

Now he tugs on the cuffs of Serge’s jeans.  They’re so fucking tight.  Then suddenly they jerk free, and Tom topples over backwards.  He hadn’t realized until this moment just how drunk he is.

He sits back up.  He’s staring straight between Serge’s impossibly long legs into a thicket of dark hair nestled around an impossibly long erection.  “Oh God,” he moans.  He doesn’t know what to do.  Really.

He loves Serge, worships him.  He kisses the God’s feet, kisses the inside of the ankles, kisses his way up the long legs and past the kneecaps.  When he reaches the inner thighs, the devil gets the better of him and he starts to lick.

Serge is smiling now, he’s looking for the right words to make this perfect.  He gets inside Tom’s head, finds the word he needs.  It is, “Finally.”

Tom’s head jerks up.  “You motherfucker,” he says.  Now he knows why he is angry.  He wraps his angry lips around Serge’s cock.

Serge has long, impossibly beautiful fingers, and they lock into Tom’s thick, dark hair and hold him, forcing his head into Serge’s groin.  Because even Serge isn’t _that_ passive.


End file.
